Sometimes you gotta bust apart to get yourself put back together.

I bet I got places to go that I don’t even know exist yet.

She wonders how people can live this kind of life – trapped inside a house with windows everywhere showing you where else you could be.

What I mean is I done some things I don’t care to talk about. Little sister, anyone alive’s got a collection of those things. Maybe so, but it’s one thing to feel like there’s a few rotten things knocking around inside you like some beans in a can. But it’s another thing to feel like those things are what your heart and stomach and brain are built out of.

Beyond the pursuit of meaning and beyond good and evil too, she says. See, it’s a daily chore tryin to do the right thing. Not because the right thing is hard to do – it ain’t. It’s just cause the right thing – well, the right thing’s got a way of eluding you. You give me a compass that tells good from bad, and boy I’ll be a soldier of the righteous truth. But them two things are a slippery business, and tellin them apart might as well be a blind man’s guess.

He looks like someone who could slap you or kiss you and you wouldn’t be able to tell which one is coming and it would mean the same thing either way.

It don’t matter. Up higher or down deeper or out farther. As long as you’re movin, it don’t matter much where you’re goin or what’s chasin you. That’s why they call it progress. It keeps goin of its own accord.

She’s done things that mark her forever, as good as a brand on her forehead – and her denial of them would be fruitless. It would be vanity.

She thinks of James Grierson. His Kisses tasted like whiskey, and they landed right and true.

Blind is the real dead.